Here Be Dragons

by Sharon Kay Penman

  “Joanna?” He sounded utterly incredulous, as if doubting his own senses, and that broke the spell. Joanna spun around, fled into the antechamber, out into the snow. She fell twice; the second time her ankle twisted under her and she lost Llewelyn’s gloves, but she regained her feet before any of the startled spectators could come to her aid, at last reached the refuge of her bedchamber.

  “My God, Madame, what happened?”

  Joanna pulled the bolt into place, stumbled toward the nearest coffer. Her ankle had begun to throb. Raising her hand to her hair, she found it wet with snow; so, too, were the skirts of her wine-red gown.

  “Madame, you’re trembling so! Can you not tell me what be wrong?”

  “No,” Joanna said. “No.”

  At a loss, Alison did what she could, cleaned the snow from Joanna’s gown, removed her mantle, poured her a cup of wine. Joanna set it down untouched. She seemed oblivious to Alison’s awkward attempts at consolation, but she jumped to her feet at the sound of footsteps in the antechamber.

  “Joanna, we do need to talk.”

  Alison was reaching for the bolt when Joanna shook her head vehemently. “But Madame, he is your husband!”

  “Joanna, open the door.”

  Alison looked helplessly to Joanna for guidance. Joanna said nothing, staring at the door.

  In the outer chamber, Llewelyn, too, was staring at the door. His demands for admittance were accomplishing nothing except to attract an audience. Turning, he slammed the antechamber door in their faces, again tried the latch in vain. He was not accustomed to being defied, nor to being made to feel foolish, and at this moment he felt very foolish indeed. It was almost a relief, therefore, to have Joanna present him with a legitimate grievance, to be able to ease his discomfiture in anger.

  “Joanna, I’ll not tell you again. If you do not open this door, I swear by Christ that I’ll fetch an axe and force it!”

  There was a long silence. Just when he’d begun to fear he might have to follow through on his threat, he heard the bolt slide back. The girl who opened the door was unfamiliar to him, obviously frightened. Joanna was standing by the trestle table. She took several backward steps as Llewelyn strode toward her, said, “Do not ever lock a door against me again.”

  She flinched, and he saw then that she was no less frightened than her maid. Norman men were, he knew, free with their fists, apt to follow up a verbal reprimand with physical reinforcement. That realization took some of the edge off his temper. So, too, did the tears glistening behind her lashes.

  Llewelyn took a deep breath, remembered he was here to redress a wrong, not to inflict new ones. “I did not want to hurt you, lass, in truth I did not.”

  But when he put his hand on her arm, she said stonily, “Go away. Just go away and leave me be.”

  She was, Llewelyn thought, making this needlessly difficult. “Joanna, I am sorry,” he said, to Joanna not sounding sorry at all. “But this was not all my fault. I did not expect you back for a fortnight, at least. How was I to know you’d return so suddenly, or that you’d make a dawn appearance in my bedchamber? For most of our marriage, you’ve acted as if that was the last place you’d ever want to be!”

  Joanna crimsoned. Her humiliation was, for the moment, even stronger than her hurt; she could think only of what a fool she’d made of herself. If only she had it to do over, if only God would give her back those shaming moments before his bed. “You need not worry,” she said, much chagrined by the sudden tremor in her voice, “I’ll not intrude upon you again. You can go back to your bed, back to your slut, finish what I so rudely interrupted.”

  “Cristyn is no slut,” he said coldly. “She is Tegwared and Anghared’s mother.”

  Cristyn. Did he call her “beloved” and “darling”? Did he murmur Welsh words of endearment whilst making love? “Forgive my innocence, my lord husband, but even amongst the Welsh I’d not think bearing two bastard children would be a testament to a woman’s virtue!”

  Llewelyn looked at her without speaking for an unbearably long moment. “‘Even amongst the Welsh,’ we do honor those who gave us life. The slurs you cast upon Cristyn can as easily be turned against your own mother, can they not?” He did not wait for her response, but turned and walked out.

  Joanna’s anger ebbed away, to be replaced by desolation. She sank down, trembling, upon the nearest stool. Llewelyn was right. In seeking to belittle Cristyn, she had indeed besmirched Clemence, too. Far worse, she had affronted Llewelyn beyond forgiving. He would hate her now, would never want her as his wife.

  So caught up was she in her own misery that it was some time before she became aware of Alison. The girl was kneeling by her stool, looking up at her with eyes full of fear.

  “Ah, Madame, what have you done?” she whispered. “Go after him, beg his forgiveness ere it be too late!”

  “It is already too late,” Joanna said wretchedly, but Alison shook her head.

  “He is angry, yes, but his heart has not had time to harden against you. You must seek him out ere it does. Madame, listen to me. I do know what it is like to live in a house without love. My mother had too sharp a tongue, and then, too, my father blamed her for failing to give him a son…Well, the reasons count for naught. What does is that he did not use her well, Madame, made of her life a Hell on earth. A man can do that, my lady, can treat his wife no better than the meanest serf, and who is to gainsay him? She is his, after all, to be lessoned as he chooses. And in this we all are sisters. High birth did not spare Philip’s Danish-born Queen Nor your grandmother, Queen Eleanor of blessed memory. And your husband is a Prince, is a man to expect obedience above all else. I was astonished, in truth, that he did not take his hand to you, but you’re not likely to be so lucky a second time. Go to him, tell him you’re sorry. Would you have him hate you for all your married life?”

  “No,” Joanna said. “Oh, no!” And before she could repent of her resolve, she snatched up her mantle, ran from the chamber.

  The bailey was now astir with people; they turned to stare as Joanna passed. There was no one at all, however, in Llewelyn’s outer chamber. Joanna leaned for a moment against the door, sought to catch her breath. She’d not yet thought what she was going to say to him, knew that if she dwelt upon it, she’d lose her nerve. Tapping lightly on the door, she said, “Llewelyn, it’s Joanna. May we talk?”

  She heard footsteps, and then the door swung open. Joanna stiffened at sight of Cristyn. She’d not dreamed Cristyn would still be there; surely, if the woman had any decency at all, she’d have withdrawn at once. Yet Cristyn had not even bothered to dress, was clad only in a linen chemise. This was the first real look Joanna had gotten at her husband’s mistress. She saw before her a tall, poised woman in her mid-twenties, with rather unusual and striking coloring. Cristyn had very white skin, masses of dark gold hair, and brown eyes. She was not beautiful; her mouth was too large, her nose too tip-tilted, but there was about her an unstudied sensuality, a provocative earthiness more alluring than mere prettiness. Joanna could understand all too well the appeal Cristyn might have for a man, for Llewelyn.

  For a heartbeat they stared at each other, and then Cristyn said, in passable French, “Llewelyn is not here. He was to meet this morn in Bangor with Bishop Robert and the Bishop of St Asaph, rode out directly after he did talk to you.”

  Turning away, she moved back toward the bed. “You will excuse me whilst I finish dressing?” she said, reaching for her stockings.

  “I do not recall giving you leave to sit in my presence,” Joanna snapped, saw a resentful flush rise in Cristyn’s face and throat. She came reluctantly to her feet, making it quite clear that she thought Joanna was not playing fair. Joanna did not care; fairness was the furthest concern from her mind. If she’d thought her command would have been obeyed, she’d have banished Cristyn then and there into English exile, even unto Ireland if she could.

  Cristyn was waiting, brown eyes suddenly wary. “Madame?” she said icily, and Joanna felt
so much hatred that it frightened her. She stared past Cristyn at the bed; it was still unmade, rumpled and warm where they had lain, Llewelyn and Cristyn, making leisurely love through the night. Whirling about, Joanna crossed the threshold, beckoned to one of the men loitering without.

  “Madame?”

  “Take that bed out into the bailey, and there burn it,” she said, saw the man’s jaw drop.

  “Jesú, Madame, I cannot do that! It is my lord’s bed, is worth—”

  “And I am your lord’s wife, am I not? I have just given you a command, so see to it—now.”

  Cristyn had followed Joanna to the doorway of the antechamber; she, too, looked dumbfounded. The man’s eyes flicked from her to Joanna, and then he nodded. It took four men to wrestle the mattress out into the bailey; cursing and panting, they dragged it a safe distance from the building. By now a large, curious crowd had gathered. Someone brought forth a torch; there were loud murmurings among the onlookers as the bed coverings ignited, burst into flame.

  Joanna stood motionless, watching as the bed burned. After a time the wind shifted, blew smoke into her face, and she coughed, turned away.

  “What of the bedframe, my lady? Shall we torch that, too?” The voice was young, the face friendly, lit by an engaging grin.

  “No,” Joanna said, startled to see that most of the other faces were friendly, too. She’d not expected that. They were watching her with amused interest, even approval, seemed to take her action as a great joke. To Joanna, it was anything but that. She was just beginning to realize what she’d done. She must have been mad, in truth, for Llewelyn would never forgive her now, never.

  Although Alison had managed to infect Joanna for a time with her panic, it soon passed. Llewelyn wanted an alliance with her father, would do nothing to jeopardize it. He’d not send her back to England in disgrace. Nor would he ever abuse her as Philip abused Ingeborg. She felt sure that was not Llewelyn’s way.

  He might well beat her for burning the bed, though. Even the most indulgent husband was likely to react with rage to folly of that sort. Each time Joanna thought of facing him with such a sin on her conscience, she shivered. She’d once seen a knight strike his wife in the great hall at Westminster, before a score of wellborn witnesses; blood had gushed from the woman’s nose, stained her gown and wimple. And while the man’s action had been greeted with almost universal disapproval, it was not his brutality that earned him such scorn, but rather that he’d been so ill-mannered as to punish her in public. Even men who never hit their wives would still, Joanna knew, defend in principle their right to do so. Women were the lesser sex, after all, and even Holy Church said they were born to be ruled by man. Alison was right; she had indeed been lucky that morning.

  But what she feared far more than a beating was the loss of Llewelyn’s friendship. How could she bear to have him look upon her with distaste, to shun her company, treat her with chill politeness? And how could it be otherwise now? Even when he finally took her to his bed, it would be without affection or tenderness; he’d not make love to her, would make use of her to beget an heir. He might even install Cristyn openly in his bed, at his table. And it was her fault. She had allowed her jealousy to rob her of that which she most wanted.

  The six-mile ride from Aber to Bangor Fawr yn Arfon had done much to cool Llewelyn’s anger, as he’d known it would. He’d always had a happy faculty for concentrating upon one problem at a time, and by the time he arrived at the great cathedral church of St Deiniol, he had as his primary concern the upcoming meeting with the Bishops of Bangor and St Asaph. He was never able to put his quarrel with Joanna completely from his mind, but he did succeed in focusing his attention upon the matters at hand, and by day’s end he was satisfied with what he had accomplished.

  It was dusk as he made ready to return to Aber. His escort was augmented by Ednyved’s force, for the latter had been a guest of Bishop Robert’s, and was now planning to move on to his own manor at Llys Euryn in Creuddyn.

  “I assume you can find me a comfortable bed for the night at Aber?” Giving Llewelyn a mischievous, sidelong glance, Ednyved added, “Or should I be offering you a safe bed at Llys Euryn?”

  Llewelyn could not hide his surprise. “What have you—second sight?”

  Ednyved grinned. “Just an ear for choice gossip. One of your men—who shall remain mercifully nameless—was kind enough to tell me about all I missed this morn. Did your girl-wife truly walk in on you and Cristyn? Jesus wept! What did you do? Mind you, this is not mere morbid curiosity, but in case I ever find myself in a like predicament!”

  “I did what any man would do when he’s caught in the wrong. I lost my temper.”

  Ednyved laughed, then nudged his mount closer to Llewelyn’s, “Does Joanna know, Llewelyn, that you’ve given her grounds for ending the marriage? Is there any chance she’s on her way home to England even as we talk?”

  Llewelyn shook his head. “Joanna knows naught of Welsh ways, even after some months in our midst. Moreover, Joanna knows that John wants me as ally, and as hard as it may be to fathom, she has found in him much to love.”

  Llewelyn was aware that he was a magnet for all eyes, but it did not bother him unduly; he’d lived most of his thirty-three years at center stage. He was bothered, however, by Joanna’s failure to appear for the meal. Each time he glanced at her empty seat, he felt a twinge of guilt; nor was his conscience eased to be told she’d eaten nothing all day, had not ventured from her chambers since the morning. He sent a servant to the kitchen, and by the time dinner was done, a platter was waiting, mead and wafers and venison pasty. Ednyved sauntered over, drawled, “As peace offerings go, you’d get better results with moonstones and amethyst,” accompanying Llewelyn as he departed the hall, stepped out into the icy dark of the bailey.

  “My lord…” A man emerged so unexpectedly from the shadows that they both started, instinctively dropped hands to sword hilts. But as he stepped closer, Llewelyn recognized Aldwyn, his silentiary.

  “My lord…after you rode out this morn, your wife did go to your chambers in search of you. The Lady Cristyn was there and they had words.” He paused, said unhappily, “My lord, I know not how to tell you, but…”

  “But what?” Llewelyn said sharply.

  “Princess Joanna…she ordered us to burn your bed.”

  “She did what?” Turning, Llewelyn looked at Ednyved, and then, of one accord and to Aldwyn’s indescribable relief, they were shouting with laughter.

  “Lord Jesus,” Ednyved gasped, wiping his eyes. “Just count yourself lucky you were not in it at the time, my lad!” Sobering somewhat, he said, “I’ve a confession, one that’ll make me sound an utter ass. But when Aldwyn gave that pregnant pause, the damnedest thought crossed my mind, that Joanna knew more of Welsh law than you thought, knew that, catching Cristyn in your bed, she had the right to claim Cristyn’s life without paying a blood-fine!”

  “Ah, but only if she did it with her own hand. Can you truly imagine Joanna stabbing Cristyn…or anyone else?” After a moment, Llewelyn began to laugh again. “But then, I never thought her capable of burning my bed, either!”

  Llewelyn found himself hesitating before the door of Joanna’s bedchamber. He was perfectly willing to placate his young wife, to offer her the balm of smiles and soft, soothing words. He was not so willing to humble his pride, to play a role for which he’d had so little practice, that of penitent, and it was with an unexpected sense of unease that he beckoned to his servant, reached for the door latch.

  He forgot his reluctance, however, with his first sight of Joanna. Her face was pinched and drawn, a mirror for such misery that he no longer begrudged her an apology, would give it gladly if that would but heal her hurt.

  He gestured for the servant to put down his burden, waiting until they were alone to say, “I was told you’d eaten nothing all day, Joanna.”

  Joanna was staring at the platter in disbelief. “You…you are not angry with me?”

  “Ah, Joanna
…I’m sorry, love, I swear I am.”

  To be offered absolution when she’d been expecting damnation was, to Joanna, nothing less than miraculous, and when Llewelyn took a step toward her, she more than met him halfway, flung herself into his arms with a choked cry.

  “I thought you’d never forgive me, never. Llewelyn, I am so sorry. I had not the right to speak to you as I did, no right to reproach you. It is not a wife’s place to question her husband’s actions. I know that. But I…I was so jealous, so very jealous…”

  Llewelyn stroked her hair, tightened his arms around her. “Joanna, you had every right. Let’s sit on the settle and talk about it.”

  Joanna accepted a cupful of mead and, when urged by Llewelyn, even took a few bites of a cheese-filled wafer, but she tasted none of it. She still could not quite believe Llewelyn was here, sitting beside her on the settle, sharing her mead cup, for the first time calling her “love” as if he meant it.

  “I think you need to know how we look upon women. It is true, lass, that a Welshwoman cannot inherit her father’s lands, whereas she would have a right of inheritance in England. But that is for the same reason that our laws do exclude men maimed, deaf, crippled, or stricken with leprosy. It was feared, you see, that women and such men could not hold their lands against attack. But we do not claim that womanly weakness on the battlefield should make her subordinate in all else, too, as you Normans do. Our women cannot be wed against their will, and a Welsh wife has no less right to walk away from an unhappy marriage than does her husband.”

  “But Llewelyn…the Church does recognize only three grounds for voiding a marriage: a previous plight troth, kinship within the seventh degree, or spiritual affinity such as acting as godparent.”

  “Well, to tell you true, Joanna, when the Church’s teachings conflict with the old customs, we tend to go our own way. As in our preference for marrying cousins. We have a saying, love: ‘Marry in the kin and fight the feud with the stranger.’ So when it comes to interpreting the marriage bond, we follow Hywel the Good rather than the Pope.”